


Letters from the Fold

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (Liberties taken), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Episode 3 Cold Open References, Epistolary, Fluff, Happy Ending, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Not Beta Read, Ok More Like 2000, Pining, References to historical violence, Slow Burn, WIP Will Be Finished!, Written but never sent, but still, chapter count may change slightly, drabble chapters, guaranteed, historical events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: After leaving The Ritz for the Bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale agree to spend the night there together—in separate rooms—before heading out of London the next morning. When Crowley’s insomnia starts him searching for something to occupy the hours, he stumbles on a journal of letters which were never meant to be seen.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

The drawer hung precariously from the oaken night table, false bottom cast aside, silenced by the deep pile of the carpet. A folio lay heavy in his hands, leather worn bald from handling... 

The heat of August was unbearable in the upper chambers of the bookshop, but they had agreed—for reasons lost to alcohol—to remain there for the evening. The Ritz had provided all the decadence of a perfect victory celebration, but as the hours wore on, they had realized they’d be far more comfortable getting out of dodge—which is to say, London—for a week or so. Just to be certain everything had, in fact, blown over. And so, half-sober and corporally drained, they agreed to the path of least resistance and stayed together. Together… but apart. 

Aziraphale had remained downstairs, where he’d claimed to feel more comfortable. The sounds of his pottering with kettles and shuffling dusty tomes had ceased, and the silence had swiftly become more than Crowley could bear. It had nearly all gone away, and here he sat, in a space he had believed just for show. A space he believed to house nothing more than the appearance of domesticity. Cream and tartan, cotton and wood. Not a stitch out of place, except for this secret something. He had poured a glass of water from the side table, conspicuously absent of the clink of ice, and been rummaging for biscuits, for a book, for anything to pass these stifling hours, when this prize had made itself known. 

He couldn’t remember which of them had suggested that he not go home, couldn’t remember why. One way or another, the hospitality had been extended; a hospitality he was possibly on the verge of insulting. Only, there was something urging him on, something not entirely inside himself calling to him as he stroked the time-slick spine of what appeared to be a journal. Pages loosely bound, several not attached at all. Bits of ancient parchment poking out haphazardly, yellow against the crisp lined sheets at the back. Curiosity killed the cat, yes. But Crowley wasn’t a cat. He was a demon… an impossibly curious demon. Ten hours earlier, his restored back pressed firmly against a park bench, granting assurances that they were miraculously still alive, he would never have given this mysterious treasure a second thought. Now, with the black velvet evening cloaking his sense of decorum, he stifled a yawn and opened to the first page.


	2. Year 61, Britain

The thing is done. The Queen, the most fearsome of the Iceni, has fallen by her own hand, and her brace of wronged daughters did follow. “Win or perish,” she had proclaimed from atop a well-weathered steed, and indeed, at the demise of the 80,000, it was poison which stayed their final breaths. 

It was my humble role to oversee the irrigation of some common lands when Governor Suetonius Paulinus—as villainous a soldier as ever there had been—did cast off the fair good faith brokered with the late king upon his passing from this earth. Were they the fires of hell which stoked in his veins, tearing apart such a noble house, and abusing those left of the line? It would almost be a relief to know it, for never shall I grasp this human desire to brutalize, to inflict suffering for suffering’s sake!

Yet as Suetonius’ hand lifted from the east to turn campaign in the far country, this disgraced ruler, this Boudicca, arose from the ruins of her house. In her chest resonated a voice deep with the pain of her people. In her stature, the height of their desire to once again feel the wind as a free clan. The flames of justice flew behind as she rallied, calling to arms each who could bear them. 

I tell you truly, never have I seen the like! The destruction of Calmulodunum was surprising in both speed and completeness, but it was Londinium… if you could only have been there to bear witness, though upon reflection, it is better you were not. The very air itself was alight with the fires of oblivion. Annihilated, reduced, ruined, it was. Acrid smoke muffling the cries of all those not escaped—and for how long escaped, one wonders—as the mighty river flowed slow with rekindling ash.

Even now that history has been done, I tremble to recall the return of that governing general, that overlord Suetonius, woh fit all too neatly Nero’s mold. Though but few, his ranks well-pressed their advantage, content not with their close-range defeat by their daggers, but needing to out-flank the Celts until the earth itself wept the blood of rebels and innocents alike. 

She would not be taken, however, the Queen of the free. What poison stopped the beat of her gallant heart and those of her kin, never will I learn. But I say to you, this warrior must in the halls of Heaven find her next seat. For duty and honor were hers to possess, and such mantle and staff she wielded well. Though it has been my charge not to meddle in the wars of men, there is no such ban on their records. I dare say, the isle of Britons will not soon forget her, for I have taken a liberty which I believe you would applaud, and have written her story here in the ash.


	3. Year 537, Wessex

Crowley (I did know it, forgive me),

Four hundred years ago, I drafted you a letter. Four hundred years and until seeing you today, I hadn’t known why. Why I had turned to you during a time of upheaval, or even at all, really. You see, Crowley, it wasn’t the fire or hellish deeds. No, it was more that you felt—well, I suppose since I won’t send this letter either, there’s no harm in saying it. It was that you felt a friend. Friends think of one another, don’t they? Isn’t that what friends do? Communicate their experiences, though  _ not _ trade miracles for temptations! Heavens no, you rapscalion!

Were you truly out fighting humans, Crowley? Or were you simply goading them into fighting one another (which, let us speak plainly, takes hardly any work these days)? On that subject—are you actually running about  _ fomenting _ , even in this dreadful fog?! Shouldn’t it rust out your armour? I know, you might ask me the same question, but I’ve been granted clearance to miracle mine impervious to this damp country. And anyway, I should imagine you’ll soon find yourself rid of it; Arthur’s peace is gaining faster than a fox at the scent of a rabbit. Soon all the knights-errant will be at their leisure to pursue the challenge with which the young Galahad has so fully taken up occupation: the pursuit of the Holy Grail. The Grail cup, as you likely know, will present itself only to the pure of heart and noble of intention. What powers it possesses are speculated by all the court, but I cannot say with any certainty what would happen should one of these fine knights of Arthur champion it.

And speaking of Arthur—his Round Table! Well, now, that is truly something! You see, rather than the guard being seated by rank, all knights are held in equal esteem. There are, of course, hidden squabbles about who should sit at the left hand of the King, but blood is not shed as it once was. The right hand belongs with certainty to a man called Lancelot duLac, a gentleman knight who has found favour with both our good Arthur and his Queen alike. In fact, should you and I ever chance to meet again, I might be enticed after a mug of proper ale to tell you just what I believe may be the story behind locked chamber doors! Not that I could fault them, mind you. As humans go, Sir Lancelot does cut rather the romantic figure. 

Oh, but I do digress. The days are long and hard, and I fear I grow lonesome under these hollow stars… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this is based on the Episode 3 Cold Open, there is some speculation that King Arthur is an amalgamation of several kings living in roughly the sixth century. Oh, and according to tradition, Sir Galahad did find the Holy Grail, in case anyone was wondering.


	4. Year 1215, Runnymede, England

To The Demon Crowley:

Don’t think I didn’t spot you there, just outside with that one baron’s advisor! I’ve spent months assisting the Archbishop with the draft of this enormous document and you’re planning to spoil it, aren’t you? I quite wonder what you’ve got to say for yourself, spoiling the hard work it’s been convincing King John to sign the bloody thing at all, this Magna Carta Libertatum, as ~~we’ve~~ they’ve called it. I should rather think, if you are on the side of the barons—which of course your lot would be, anyone that itches to rebel would be right up your alley, wouldn’t it—I should think you would be well put to convince them to uphold their end of the bargain. 

Now, between us, I have had word that the Pope is less than committed to this agreement. Why on earth he cannot be more supportive of his own Archbishop, or at the very least, flow some useful information his way, I cannot understand. Isn’t the Archbishop of Canterbury supposed to be an important position? He is a learned man, a servant of the church! Don’t you think he deserves the courtesy, if not the proper respect, of hearing directly from his superiors that if this treaty falls through, it may be revoked?! I cannot fathom why they would allow him to look the fool before king and court, to say nothing of his potential reputation among other clergy! Well! Forgive me for having a bit of a rant, but I really do not find it the best way to run things.

Oh, I suppose regardless of the outcome, this Magna Carta business is still preferable to my first experience with contract negotiations. Although in those days, we called it a covenant. I still have never found out what made the Almighty demand such an absolutely hideous price from poor Abram, but convincing him to go through with that messy business about Isaac… They never told me, Crowley. Can you imagine? Me! Sent me there to convince a father to murder one of his children in the name of loyalty, and never bothered to enlighten me that it was all going to be ok in the end. Though I say ‘ok;’ don’t tell me that poor boy didn’t develop some proper trauma responses throughout his blessedly long life. Not that I would ever judge Her, that is not my place. But yes, alright, I may have a bit of a chip on my shoulder after being a party to something so miserably gruesome. What of it?

Anyway, my point is… you. You out there, running about Windsor, probably instructing the barons to… to… revolt or something! Despite the king’s assurances, which I feel very confident he will keep in good faith.

I suspect I shouldn’t write after wine, Crowley. Goes straight to my head. They do serve a delicious mead down in the center of the city though, with a fantastic mutton pie! Perhaps I shall see you there one afternoon. I suppose, if you’d tell me your plans, I shouldn’t entirely mind it. 

Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you aren’t familiar.... the Magna Carta didn’t hold on either side. Pope Innocent III annulled it, it was reissued several times... definitely the typical work of Aziraphale and Crowley, if you ask me.


	5. Year 1488, Cape of Good Hope

Crowley, 

I cannot express my absolute anguish at the death of a local tribesman at Dias’ hand! Thank Heaven he is a skilled captain and navigator, for his own action forced us to flee that delta with tremendous haste. 

We had spent months coming south along the Atlantic coast, following the padroes left by previous expeditions, those simple stone pillars a welcome signal that we were indeed following the path laid by Dias’ forbears. Upon reaching the known coast of Cape Cross, we set to wait our store ship. Well, I don’t mind telling you that the thought of all those provisions disappearing on the hind horizon did a good deal of unpleasantness to my stomach! Not that the ocean hadn’t already been doing a number—I dare say, if my corporation survives this voyage, I shall avoid seafaring for a century, at least. 

Anyway, as I was saying. We had been blown of course by terrible storms, but out captain and pilot discovered a pattern to the winds, and within a few short weeks, we had gained the more tropical currents of the fair ocean of India! Only, once we came ashore and did a bit of bartering, things went awry. I cannot blame the Khoikhoi for the instigation not such hostilities as took place, though surely the official histories will do just that .To be set upon by pale strangers with weapons at their backs, engaging in trade, but with the capability to take more than cattle…

But Crowley, I do wonder. You see, there was… well, there is no delicate way to state it. There was a massive snake lurking in the high grasses. No one seemed to take any notice but me, but, oh, Crowley… it winked at me, I do feel quite certain. The onyx and scarlet colouring were rather a strong suggestion as it was, you really needn’t have risked such exposure. If it was you, and if you did have a hand (or scale, I suppose) in the driving out of Dias and his crew, just know I’m not upset with you. I should never put this in my report, but, in fact, I suspect you would have been in the right. 

Something about these Europeans makes me nervous, Crowley. This exploration age… I feel it in my bones. Please stay safe on the continent, my friend. I fear for the times ahead.

Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I’ve mistaken any of the facts here, please let me know!


	6. Year 1590, Roanoke Island, North America

Crowley,

These are strange days indeed! Only have I just returned from our own beloved England with John White, but we found the entire village we had let deserted! Perhaps I had do better to explain, before leaping into the wilds of the story. 

You see, a new colony had been lately forged on this American continent, namely that of Roanoke. This second attempt at the settlement was to be the foundation of a strong and vital foothold of the Empire (the tactics of which I suspect are largely influenced by your lot, if you will forgive my saying so). Well, the colony was set up, over 100 persons in number. With its location well-poised to thrive, especially due to positive communications with a friendly cohort of native inhabitants. Oh, don’t look at me like that, so what if I’d had a teensy bit to do with it. I _am_ a skilled intermediary. You should have seen the marriage counseling I did back in The Garden. Well, it was inevitable, wasn’t it? After that whole Lilith debacle! (How is she, by the way? Doing well, I hope.)

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes—fishing, farming, and knowledgeable friends. So. There should have been nothing to concern us when the business of supplies drew a small lot of us, myself (per orders from Above) included, back to England. The colonists met with their partners, I met with mine. How Gabriel does detest North America! Claims he prefers what is ‘established,’ though personally I suspect the moose. Then they had a war with Spain which delayed our return a few years. I had scones. It was a lovely trip. When we’d concluded out respective business, we set sail back to the colony. Well, of course we did, didn’t we? I gave as much away in my opening. Must work on my storytelling skills. Not that I aim to be a storyteller myself. Oh, but to be part of those circles! Perhaps one day I could run a shop. A modern place with a staircase and a view of the main thoroughfare from the front windows! 

What were we talking about? Yes, right. The disappearance! Everyone—every last person we had left behind—had gone! There was no destruction, no sign of struggle or battle, and no indication as to where they’d gone, or why. The only single thing that may be a hint is the single word, ‘Croatoan,’ carved neatly into a standing trunk along the palisade. The poor, bewildered humans accompanying me fear the worst, and will set sail for another island which does sometimes bear a similar unusual name. I must make a confession, however. I have not translated quite everything the local tribesmen have shared with me. True, they are no wiser as to the fate or disposition of our fellow colonists. They do, though, tell a strange tale of a snake-god, red bellied and foreign to this land. He has come, they say, bearing stores of food in the harshest winter, and when he takes the form of man, his hair glows like flame. Crowley, I will never share these stories, for it is possibly the oddest coincidence on this earth. But. Crowley...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken some liberties with this one, as so little is known for certain about the colonists’ disappearance from Roanoke.


End file.
